


Pirates of the Caribbean: Fathoms Below

by George_Sand_II



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Chevalle has a daughter, Chevalle speaks French, I may add translations to that at some point but for now, Magic, Naval Battles, Post-Dead Men Tell No Tales, Post-Salazar's Revenge, Probably some swashbuckling swordfights later on, Sea witches, Warning: French, background Chevalle/Villanueva, pirate adventure
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:20:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23231584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/George_Sand_II/pseuds/George_Sand_II
Summary: The moment the Trident of Poseidon was destroyed, a wave of freed raw magic swept the oceans. Magic however, like any natural force, cannot simply vanish. Energy does not disappear, it is transformed. So when mysterious phenomena begin to appear on the seas like never before, it is up to one very unlucky lady to find the magic and bind it. As if finding out that she is the daughter of Capitaine Chevalle wasn't drama enough for a lifetime...Renamed from Curse of St. Elmo's Fire, because let's be honest the new title sounds better.
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter One - The Measure of a Father

On the quarterdeck of a magnificent vessel stood a remarkable man. The ship was not magnificent because she was of particularly fine make, or because she was lavishly decorated, on the contrary. Her decorations, what little there were, had perhaps once been brightly painted, but now they were mostly bare wood, with the faded hint of colours whose hues could scarcely be identified. She had once been the pride of the French Navy in the Mediterranean, now she was a pirate vessel. She was magnificent because no matter how much strife, how many storms, cannons and even on a few occasions supernatural foes he cast her in the way of, she had stood through it all and sailed like a dream still, her creaking a continuous whispering to reassure him that she could still face what he sailed her through. And her captain was remarkable, because he was so much like her. Though he was foppish, he could not be called beautiful, and although he dressed like the peaks of fashion, it was a fashion which had been in vogue over thirty years ago, and long since fallen out of favour. On him, though, anything other than a lavish brocade suit and sizeable allonge wig would seem out of place.

His heavy eyes were staring intently at a smoking ship before him, tied as it was to his own ship with several cables it looked just as miserable and defeated as he was convinced it ought to. They had given her a beating with no subtleties whatsoever, and those who did not submit to Capitaine Chevalle and the crew of The Fancy would soon find themselves in for a proper thrashing –

"Capitaine!"

Chevalle, Pirate Lord of the Mediterranean, rolled his eyes and turned to face the bo'sun who had called his name. It was well known amongst the crew that the captain liked to stand and look his fill at a captured prize, and to interrupt him before he turned away on his own accord neared sacrilege. Someone had dared to do it now. It was to be hoped, for the sake of that someone, that his errand was important enough to warrant such an interruption.

"Quoi passé?" asked the Penniless Frenchman, not bothering to hide his impatience.

"It is one of the passengers on the merchantman, Capitaine. She has a letter..." suddenly it seemed to Chevalle that the man was on the verge of sniggering, "From your mother."

Chevalle spun around, "Putain, j'en ai marre!" he wasn't angry at the poor bo'sun, but very, very annoyed with his... mothering origins. How dare she! And it wasn't even unlike her, this had happened before. Old Maman Chevalle had not raised a brood of pirates, blackmailers, smugglers and villains in general for no reason, and, what was worse, she found it vital to actually keep in touch with them. This could be extremely embarrassing when you were a middle-aged Pirate Lord with a reputation to uphold receiving emissaries from your mother. Chevalle grumbled something fierce, but decided against taking out his frustration on his poor crewmember. Best to save that for the messenger, "Eh bien, bring her to me, then."

The bo'sun, his hat clutched to his chest, clicked his heels together - something Chevalle had all his crewmembers learn the moment they joined, as he liked to keep things stylish - and left the quarterdeck, only to return a few minutes later with a young lady in tow. Chevalle took a moment to study her, out of aloof curiosity. She had surprisingly short hair, kept in a tight queue, but from what he could see of it, it was black and curled rather lusciously, much like his own had back in the day, before it had greyed and he'd cropped it for the sake of the wig. Her eyes were a stark blue, and her gaze would trap most anyone she locked with it. In fact, the least remarkable thing about her was that she wore a man's suit.

Without a word, Chevalle reached out an impeccably manicured hand, the lace positively spilling from his sleeves in sheer overflow. She reached into an inner pocket, and pressed a neatly folded letter into his outstretched palm with deliberate firmness. He cocked two neat painted eyebrows, and quickly broke the seal, unfolding the note to read it. Surprisingly, it was brief. Very, very short, in fact. He held it out a little, straining to read it again, just to be sure he had read his mother's very curly handwriting correctly.

Then, he looked up at the girl, ".... tell me, mademoiselle, how old are you?"

"Twenty-two." She answered, her eyes not leaving his countenance one moment.

Chevalle's face scrunched up as he did some very difficult mathematics. Not difficult because the numbers were, but difficult because quite a lot of the time he spent on shore had a tendency to be hazy. The letter mentioned a woman, and he remembered that woman. He had spent money, how had he earned that money, what had he sold? Muskets and rum, he remembered, with that strange maker's mark... Copenhagen. Which meant he had plundered a Danish merchantman, which was off Saint Croix, and that would be around...

With a dread and a shock that rarely ever overcame hardened pirates, no matter how foppish, he stared at her, "Merde."

"I suppose I had anticipated that reaction." the girl - his, well, his daughter, he supposed he had to face facts - crossed her arms, "Admittedly, I thought you'd be taller."

"Excusez-moi?!" Chevalle spluttered, "I am not short!"

"You're wearing heels. That is called compensating, Captain Chevalle."

Chevalle, fearsome Pirate Lord, pressed his lips together and fought some very rude French words, swallowing them like bitter medicine. There were things in this world that he would never call his daughter, no matter how unexpectedly she had turned up. He settled for a sourly, "What do you want?"

"Honestly? I got thrown out by my mother with an address and instructions to not return unless I was willing to stop running off on ships." She shrugged, "You were the best I had. Which says a lot as to the hopelessness of my situation."

Once more, she managed to twist her words in such a way that he was vaguely offended, but also felt a certain, unfamiliar concern well up in him. Oh dear. He was becoming his mother very quickly. Then, he realised something, "Attends, you ran off on ships? You have sailed?" Women on ships was unusual, women disguised as men less so, but he knew the field well enough to realise that it had been half a decade since she would have been able to trick anyone by dressing in men's clothes.

"Merchantmen, mostly."

"But... how?!"

She sent him a look. It answered his questions. This was a young lady who could paralyse with her gaze, not paralyze the heart, but the mind. He did not doubt that she had been respected on every crew she joined, woman or not. "Nom de Dieu..."

"Are you referring to the situation in general or to this specific revelation?"

The pirate grumbled. He was very good at that. "Well, aren't you just.... what is your name?"

She raised her brows at him, and suddenly reminded him frighteningly of himself, albeit a younger version. It annoyed him more than it logically should. "My name is Celeste."

"Of course, she wouldn't settle for less." Celeste's mother had been one of his somewhat longer female acquaintances, and he had come to know her better than he would, in retrospect, have liked, "Celeste Chevalle, then."

"No." Her immediate rejection stung like the devil, which by all means it should not have, "Celeste Howard."

He looked at her with utter distaste, "Mais non, c'est trop ordinaire! Tu es ma fille, ergo, tu es une Chevalle." He knocked his fist against the balustrade.

"Well I didn't see you around much when I was running on the streets kicking rocks and throwing sticks, while my mother did... what she did." There was a subtle anger in her features now, and a righteous one, he realised. He could not blame her.

For once completely serious, he deflated. A Frenchman very rarely deflated, and he did so even more rarely than was usual. But she had punctured his ego something fierce, "I was not told, had I known -"

"You'd have what? Turned up once every full moon? Taken me to sea from I could walk?"

"... non, probablement pas." He admitted, realising that he had grown completely distracted from his ship and his crew, and they needed to get out of these waters. Chevalle sighed exasperatedly, rubbing his chin, "I have to give my crew orders and a heading, go below to my cabin and wait for me there." he paused, expecting her to obey immediately. Instead, she just looked at him again, and he stood there for a long moment, before realising what she wanted. It felt like swallowing his pride, and he did not find that a wholesome diet. 

"... s'il te plaît?"

Finally, she turned and skipped down The Fancy's quite fancy ladder from the quarterdeck to the main, showing that she more than just knew her way around a ship.


	2. Chapter 2 - Finding What You Did Not Know Was Lost

Chevalle dragged out the time, he had to admit that to himself even if he did not like doing so. He dragged out the few things he had to do on deck, and he took it upon himself to take an inspection round of the plunder, twice. Even once would have been unnecessary. However, he had someone waiting in his cabin whom he found himself increasingly reluctant to face. Perhaps afeared would be a more precise word, but he would never dream of actually using it in connection to his own emotional state, no matter how true it might be.

Eventually, however, with the plundered ship fading away to a dot on the endlessness of the rolling blue, he had to face defeat. It could be postponed no further. With a heavy sigh, he left the wheel to his first mate and went below to face his fate.

She was sitting with her side to the door when he walked through it, studying his naval charts closely, with the eye of someone who might know how to sail a vessel, but who had never actually planned out a course or learnt how to read a chart. Celeste was curious, that much he could tell, and judging by the line between her frowning brows, she was doing her outmost to satisfy her curiosity on her own, a futile endeavour where charts like these were concerned. A teacher was always necessary. Chevalle was about to say something, he had a feeling it would be soft. She did not give him the chance. The very moment she sensed him standing there, and she did so with a swiftness to almost rival his own, she abruptly stood, and the instant she met his eye he quite forgot what he was about to say. Perhaps that was for the best. Nothing good ever came of pirates being soft.

Without a word, Chevalle sat down on the chair opposite hers, not his usual seat behind the heavy desk, but one he found more informal, and thus more appropriate for the situation. He unbuckled his swordbelt and draped it over the backrest of his chair, then took off his hat and placed it on the desk, slightly to the side so that it did not come between them. “Maintenant, Céleste, you will not have my name, even when it is offered you, so what can I give you? Money, passage, ques-ce qu’as tu besoin de moi?” 

“Money? From ‘the Penniless Frenchman’?” she looked amused at the thought, and he had to admit that he took some offense from that. He was a pirate, and a dastardly successful one at that, he had coins sewn into his clothes to a value most people would faint just at the thought of carrying.

“It is a moniker, Céleste, it does not actually reflect the state of my finances.” He pursed his lips in thought, trying to come up with some sort of idea as to what on earth could be done with this situation. She did not actually know what she wanted, she had made that perfectly clear, and was here for the simple reason that she had nowhere else to go but to him. Not a flattering circumstance. He rested his forearms on the table and folded his hands to keep them from fidgeting, something he knew he was unfortunately prone to, “You were, as I understood, ah… the word, what is this word for which I am needing, why is English so impossible –“

“You can use French, it’s fine. I picked it up along the way.” Celeste made a little grimace, “Don’t ask me to speak it, though, I never got a hang of the grammar.” 

“Preposterous! Are you saying my daughter cannot speak French?! My own flesh and blood?!”

She rolled her eyes to the very heights of heaven, “Jesus suffering Christ. Just get on with it, would you?”

Chevalle huffed, choosing to file away these unsatisfactory circumstances for later remedying. His daughter would learn perfect French, whether she liked it or not, he would personally see to it, “You were jeté by your mother for refusing to cease sailing. Correct? Are you saying that you would rather sail than have a home?”

Celeste took pause at that, having, that much was evident, not thought of it like that before. The ship swayed slightly, and Chevalle took a hold of his hat before it could slide across the table, without ever ceasing to look at her. Eventually, the answer came, and it was not as unsure as he had expected, “Yes.”

“And despite its uncompromising dangers, perpetual discomfort, and humidité sans-cesse, you prefer the sea to land?”

This time the answer came promptly, “Yes.”

“Bien.” Chevalle saw no other solution than this, so he was fairly convinced there was none, “Best to work on your French, young lady, for you are now a marin aboard Le Caprice.”

Celeste blinked, then her brows tensed to a frown once more as she considered this development. It did not take her very long, “I accept. But no favours, I do not need a father.”

“Je ne peux pas garantir ca.” answered Chevalle, rising from his chair to stand before his great sea chest. The complicated locking mechanism had taken him months of dedication to master, but now he unlocked it on pure instinct, barely even needing to look. What he needed was in the bottom drawer, tucked away like an unpleasant memory. He tossed it at her with the sure knowledge that she would catch it, which she did. It was his old hammock, “And whether you need or want one, from today you have a father.”

“And a captain.”

“Oui. I am glad we are in accord concerning this matter, it will make things easier.”

She slung the hammock over her shoulder, “And the crew, do you feel any ill-advised urges to let them know?”

“Oh, ne t'inquiète pas...” Chevalle smirked with the satisfaction of a captain who knows his crew better than most people know their family, “They already know. They do possess eyes, and even if they cannot see, they will notice.”

For a moment, it seemed Celeste would protest. Then he cocked his brows at her in a knowing expression, and she took a good look at him and relented, “What are your orders, Capitaine Chevalle?”

“Queen’s Quarters, Mademoiselle Howard, and see to it that you take both First and Middle watch tonight.” With vague amusement he saw how her otherwise controlled façade fell just a tad, and he chuckled, one corner of his mouth quirking upwards, and that side of his moustache doing the same, “I said I was your father, I did not say I would not test you.”

He kept a very careful, calculating watch of her expression, and when it settled on pure, spiteful determination, he found himself distinctly pleased. Even more so when she clicked her heels together with a “Oui, Capitaine.” before she left. Quick learners were always welcome at sea. In fact, they were mostly the only ones to make it here.


	3. The Burned Ships

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a very annoying (says Chevalle) Spanish captain turns up, and the plot thickens...

Some people were of the opinion that hourglasses were silent, and before this hour Chevalle might well have agreed with them. Now, however, the constant susurrus of the sand running through its tiny gap and onto the glass bottom of the timekeeper ate its way through all the surrounding noise; the creaking of the ship around him, the scratching of his pen against paper, the whispering of the wind outside. They were nothing against that low, constant sound of seconds rushing by. He huffed and laid down his pen. There was nothing for it. He had been like this since the moment the first watch started, and although it had been but a few minutes of it, he knew he could stand no more of this. He also knew why, but he would die sooner than admit it.

Still without admitting it, he rose from his chair, pressed his hat firmly over his wig, and left his cabin. Giving no explanation to this extremely strange behaviour, he simply turned up on the quarterdeck, quietly gave the helmsman orders to go belowdecks and get some rest, and took over command. Now, there was nothing really to do, the wheel was lashed and needed no adjusting, they were firmly on a course that they would be likely to hold for at least a day, and the wind seemed constant and mild, leaving their progress slow, and the topsails the only ones to really have any use. He noticed all this peripherally, for once his ship did not have the bulk of his attention. Rather, that lay with the figure who was seated in relaxed attention on the mizzenmast topsail yard. It was rather high for his liking, so his first order came on sheer instinct, and before he could even think it through, which was unusual.

“Howard, get down from there!” being lookout when there was nothing much to do was an acceptable task. However, to the captain, when it was Celeste who was sitting precariously across a beam fifty feet in the air, it was decidedly not. His nerves, which he had honestly thought were nonexistent by now after decades of them not giving so much as a twinge, went haywire for an uncomfortably upsetting short while, as she leapt into the shrouds and easily swung herself down onto the deck. She knew her way around a ship, that he had to concur, but to his deep displeasure this did nothing for his nerves.

Once she was down his nerves quietened, but something else surfaced. An unpleasant realisation that he, a man who had come this far only from having no weaknesses of any kind, was now in possession of one. She was a walking, breathing, living weakness that talked back and cussed when she thought he wouldn’t hear it, and if anything happened to her he would be instantaneously wrecked. Throwing himself into fray after fray, salvo upon salvo did not intimidate him the least, and though he had always walked with the knowledge that he might drop dead at any moment from a bullet or cannon shot, he had always walked with a swagger. He still didn’t mind the thought that he might die, it was all part of the work. But Celeste. She was different.

Chevalle grumbled as she came and sat down on the gunwale right by the shrouds so that she could lean against the thick, safe ropes. She took out a piece of wood, it looked like a very small bit of firewood, which meant she had probably charmed the cook into giving it to her, and a knife. Steadily, she began to carve, and a silence descended between them which was full of unsaid things.

“Why do you care?” she asked her question so unexpectedly that he almost jumped, and the mum tone with which it was posed made him frown.

He feigned confusion, “Care? What ever do you mean?”

“You’re supposed to be happily asleep in your cabin, and judging by the look on de Lupiac’s face you’re not exactly prone to night shifts.” Celeste wasn’t looking at him, and when he looked at her, she was steadily whittling with her eyes focused on the task.

Chevalle pursed his lips and wished silently that he had sired a child with somewhat more dull observation skills. On the other hand, what had he expected? She was his, “You see things that are not there.” He insisted, contrary to all evidence presented. She was frowning, but still not looking up from her work despite the fact that he could not help but study her expression. He wondered why this discrepancy existed. Did it somehow matter less to her than it did to him? How could this be? The little line between her brows when she realised that his denial was final confused him. She looked up, but only to look away from him, gazing across the endlessness of the sea.

When she finally spoke, he had hoped she might somehow choose to push the matter, but he was sorely disappointed, “There is a ship a good league or so to starboard.” 

“Quoi?” quickly, his looking glass was out of his pocket and folded out with one swift movement. He lifted it to his best eye, and stared intently in the direction she had given. Celeste was right, there were lights, and the outline of a ship, unidentifiable in the dark. When suddenly the moon broke through the clouds, he almost dropped the precious spyglass, “Putain de bordel de merde! C’est Villanueva!” angrily he paced to the opposite ship’s side just to shout out his annoyance to the sea, who had dared to send this Spanish devil his way; “Ca me fait chier!”

”That was very rude of you.” Celeste’s voice, coming from right behind him, actually succeeded in making him jump, and he gave a very low grumble.

“Oh, puta –“ Chevalle stopped himself, something he otherwise never did, “Purée.” He tried, tamely.

Celeste looked at him with genuine confusion, “What? You can say it, I’m not a child. If you want to cuss, by all means go ahead. Though I must confess, I already like this Villanueva fellow.”

All colour drained from Chevalle’s face, although you would never have been able to tell with all the lead white he had smeared on it, as he stared at his offspring. Quite a few very distinctly rude words made themselves known in his head, but though his jaw was clenched and his lips pressed tightly together, ready to fire off said words, he suddenly found that no matter how hard he tried, he could not bring himself to cuss in front of his daughter, “How could my own flesh and blood say such a horrible thing? Villanueva is a villain, a common thief, a – a ruthless cutthroat with no morals of any kind!”

“As opposed to?”

“You –“ Chevalle pointed his index finger right at the tip of her nose, “You are too sharp for your own good.”

Thoroughly unimpressed, Celeste met his eyes evenly, “That would be your fault, so shove it.” When he did lower his accusatory finger, she could not help just a little flash of surprise, though she recovered swiftly. She had to. What would happen if she showed weakness in front of him? She could not know, but she had never known men to be kind creatures, least of all pirates.

Still there remained the issue of the approaching ship. As the minutes passed and the ship came closer, it became evident that it was headed right for The Fancy, and since the wind was to Villanueva’s advantage, there was little to do but stay put and wait. The crew were roused from their slumbers, and the cannons manned with a quiet speed which Celeste found quite impressive. You didn’t get this sort of dedication on merchant ships where people did not expect to enter battle, where the crew was well aware that their fate lay in the delivery of their cargo, not in the sureness of their aim with a cannon.

As though to signal their pacifist intentions, Villanueva’s ship turned at the last moment, so that its stern was facing The Fancy’s broadside, leaving the Centurion, the name Celeste read in bold gold letters on the transom of the ship, vulnerable. Far from serving to calm Chevalle, however, Celeste could tell that he grew even more enraged. It seemed evident that he had hoped for an opportunity to have it out with this Captain Villanueva, and now, robbed of any possible excuse, he positively seethed. Celeste couldn’t help herself – she sniggered.

“C’est pas amusant!” Chevalle, much against his intentions to remain stoic in the face of the Spanish nuisance, pouted, “He is my enemy, my nemesis, the greatest scourge of my professional life!”

“Sounds like good fun to me,” Celeste stated, wanting to see just how far she could push him.

From somewhere beside her, halfway up the steps to the quarterdeck, game a booming laugh, and a moment later a wide, but very short man stepped up. He had a wide nose, wild hair, and a beard that would command the envy and respect of any castaway. On his head he wore a hat that seemed at least eighty years out of fashion, “Chevalle! You old French bastard, how are you?”

“What do you care, Couillon d’Espagne? And for the last time, my parents were married.” Grumbled Chevalle. Still, to Celeste’s outmost shock, a moment later three cheek kisses were exchanged in greeting between the two. She could only watch in fascination as utter seething hostility gave way to genuine mutual respect, only to morph into constant vague amusement and stubborn aloofness respectively. 

As she was trying to take in this new development, the Spaniard, whose presence was so great it was already putting up a fight to take over the deck from Chevalle’s, turned to her, “Ah, and who is this now? I have never known you to have women aboard – oh.” After a moment of looking at her properly, he seemed to be subject to a minor epiphany. Quite shocked, and genuinely so by the look of him, Villanueva looked at Chevalle, who was standing with his arms crossed and his nose pointed a little further towards the sky than usual, “Dios mío! Mi amigo, I did not think you had it in you!”

“Now he insults my virility.” Mumbled Chevalle, sniffing indignantly, “And he hasn’t even been here for five minutes!”

Completely nonplussed, Celeste could only stare at the two. They were bickering, she realised, like a proper old couple. Enemy, Chevalle had said, and nemesis. If her eyes were worth anything, there was a lot more to it than that. Deciding to reconquer a little of the attention, because she damn well felt she deserved to at least get to introduce herself, she offered her hand to the Spanish captain, “My name is Celeste Howard, and don’t let him tell you otherwise.”

Taking her hand and giving it a good squeeze, Villanueva looked her over with an intrigued gleam in his mirthful eyes. He truly was the closest thing you could get to the opposite of Chevalle, “Already you have bruised his pride, eh? Well done, it took me years to learn how to get to him.” At that, over in his self-made corner of indignation, Chevalle huffed. This only served to triple Villanueva’s mirth. But suddenly, it all vanished. Like a club-hauling ship, the Spaniard’s humour turned on the spot and he grew serious, even grave.

“As pleasant at this family introduction has been, I have an unpleasant errand with you.” Now it was Villanueva’s turn to cross his arms, though he had a much broader chest than Chevalle, and as such the gesture became powerful rather than affronted, “Did you burn two of my treasure ships?”

Chevalle’s arms dropped, “You know very well I never burn the ships I plunder; non, ce n’etait pas moi.” He looked genuinely concerned, a serious worry that made him suddenly seem like a proper captain. Celeste stared. He seemed to be changing right in front of her, and perhaps, just perhaps, she was a little impressed, “Jocard is not in these waters at the moment, and Ammand is down by the Gold Coast. It cannot have been them either.” Chevalle added.

This seemed only to make Villanueva more frustrated. He whipped something out of his pocket, and only when he was waving it at Chevalle could Celeste discern what it was – a piece of charred wood, “Still my ships are burnt, and if Jocard and Ammand are not even here, then you are the only one left!”

“Connard! Je ne fait pas –“

“Of course you did, who else would dare attack my ships! La mona aunque se vista de seda, mona se queda!”

“Comment oses-tu?! Je ne suis pas un singe!”

“Excuse me!” Celeste, being, it would seem, the only one who dared amongst the growing crowd of spectators, stepped in between the two warring parts. Anyone of either crew who had had any notion of stepping onto the quarterdeck had long since withdrawn. Wisely, she thought, with considerable annoyance at being unable to do the same, “Can I see that?” without waiting, she snatched the chunk of burnt ship from Villanueva.

Both captains looked at her in stunned silence as she lifted it to her nose and smelled it, “You know, this is strange. Not a trace of powder, nor smoke. And burnt wood, really, ought to smell of smoke, oughtn’t it?”

Villanueva glared at her, causing Chevalle to puff up his chest in ill-advised paternal defensiveness. Celeste staunchly ignored it. “Give that to me.” Growled Villanueva. The Spaniard, unlike Celeste, actually waited for her to put the charred piece in his hand, then he copied her and held it to his nose, “True. Come to think of it, there was no smoke at the site, either, but I did not think to look for that which was not there.” The burnt wood was passed on to Chevalle, who rubbed two fingertips against it and lifted them to his delicate French nose, rather than the entire chunk of wood. Couldn’t risk the makeup.

“It does tend to be easier to find that which is there,” Celeste agreed, “I only noticed this because I knew what to look for.”

Now she had the attention of both of them. Keen, sharp attention, and two gazes, one boring into her left cheek and one her right, since she was still acting barrier in a warzone which was slow to cool, “And what, pray tell, is it that you know but chose not to tell your captain?” asked Chevalle, somewhat coolly.

Celeste tentatively stepped back, ready to step between them again should they resume their previous course, and looked at Chevalle, “It was a rumour, and I did not think anything of it until now. You know how sailors can be, a sloop goes down and suddenly you’ve got ghost pirates all over.” She did a motion with her hands which universally meant ‘idiots, right?’, and both the pirates made a noise that, just as universally, meant ‘god yes, we know’. Celeste continued, “Now, I can’t recall all of it, but they spoke of some sort of mysterious blue fire that suddenly turned up from the sea and devoured ships, leaving them charred with no trace of actual proper fire. Or people, for that matter.”

“Fire?” asked Chevalle.

“From the sea?” supplemented Villanueva.

“This was why I didn’t say anything until now.” Celeste kept herself from adding that it was also, in part, because she had been here less than a day, and father-daughter quality time had been limited to a bit of mutual nagging, and him throwing a hammock at her face, “It sounds insane, I know.”

Villanueva and Chevalle, two pirates who had seen and interacted with a ghost ship captained by a part-octopus-part-lobster-part-man, looked at each other, then at Celeste.

“You know, actually…” began Villanueva.

“… doesn’t sound all that far-fetched if you ask me.” Completed Chevalle.

Celeste looked from one to the other. They seemed honest. In fact, they looked like they genuinely meant what they said. “You have got to be pulling my leg.” Neither of them so much as blinked, “Alright, you’re not. But even if we, hypothetically, mind, even consider the ‘mysterious blue fire’ a possibility, what could cause such a thing?”

Chevalle shrugged, “Je ne sais pas, but there are certainly ways.”

“Whatever did it,” Villanueva said staunchly, crossing his arms again, “Jack Sparrow had something to do with it. Probably a Turner, too, somewhere. Maybe that Swann lady.”

“Extrêmement probable,” agreed Chevalle, “I hear they have a son, it could be him. Whatever the case, we need more information.”

Celeste, by now quite frustrated with the naming of people she had no idea who was, and the vague complicity between the two captains, put her hands to her hips in a surprisingly stern way, “And who exactly do you propose we ask?”

“Oh, that is simple enough,” Villanueva shrugged, “We just have to find Shansa.”

“Or,” added Chevalle, “She finds us. Whichever happens first.”


	4. The Witch in the Hammock

Celeste was not having a good morning. It was hardly a morning at all, with barely a reddening at the furthest edge of the horizon, but she was at this point well and truly done with it, and would like for it to be over as soon as possible, thank you very much. To start with, she was supposed to have been happily asleep in her hand-me-down hammock hours ago, but the appearance and subsequent sticking around of Villanueva had spoilt those plans, as she had a father – no, she silently chided her exhausted mind, a _captain_ who also happened to be her father, but that wasn’t the important bit in the equation – who had gotten it into his head that she had to be here for the whole mess. First the two had argued over who should be the lead which, considering they were on the same course – that course being ‘nowhere in particular’ – was the most senseless triviality imaginable, and then Chevalle had spent the next forty minutes in a stupor of contrariness and insult because he had lost the game of dice they’d played to settle the issue. No, Celeste was not at all having a good morning. It was about to improve marginally, seeing as she was, with very little remaining brain activity, stumbling down towards the crew’s sleeping quarters and her hammock. She could have sworn in that moment that she had never in her life yearned so much for anything, not even her old trusty straw mattress.

A moment later, she was swearing in another way entirely. God, could this morning get any worse?

When she suddenly reappeared on the quarterdeck, all activity halted in sheer shock at the vision of seething, overtired wrath that appeared before those unfortunate enough to be on watch. It was the sort that truly creates equality between ages and genders, in that everyone would prefer not to be subjected to it. Celeste stopped just above the steps, practically shaking with exactly this type of incandescence, and even Chevalle felt very tempted to take a step back, a temptation he was alone in his ability to subdue.

“There is a witch. In. My hammock.” She was pointing accusatorially in the general direction of her sleeping quarters which meant somewhere beneath the boards of the main deck, “A god damn _witch_ in my god damn _hammock._ ”

Chevalle, either brave or enormously foolish, decided to ask the obvious, “Et maintenant, how do you know she is a witch?”

“I don’t know what the bleeding hell else she could possibly be!”

“Just out of curiosity, does this witch have, ah, red lines tattooed on her face?” asked Chevalle, feigning calmness.

“I didn’t bloody look that closely.” Celeste practically growled, “She’s bald, she has a big red spot on her forehead like someone smacked her with a blazing hot frying pan, and she is in my _hammock._ ”

“Yes, I believe that has been establish–“

“ _I’m_ supposed to be in my hammock, not some witch who banged her head. I _want_ to be in my hammock. It’s _mine._ ”

Chevalle wasn’t listening, which she found truly infuriating, and he had the audacity to not even look at her but rather somewhere over her left shoulder. He pursed his lips, making his pointy little moustache twitch, “It is Shansa.” 

For some reason, this made Celeste take pause, “How can you be so sure?”

“Eh bien,” mused Chevalle, “We can begin with the fact that she is standing right behind you.”

Celeste spun around, and almost fell back on her behind. She would have fallen, had Chevalle not foreseen this reaction and stepped in to catch her. Neither of them commented it. Both were somewhat fixated on the strange woman who seemed to have manifested on the quarterdeck from the thin mist of morning.

“That was not a flattering description, Celeste Chevalle.” Said an ethereal voice, the kind of voice that sounds like its owner is raised just a tiny bit above the world itself, and enjoys the view with a distanced intellectualism. The eyes above the voice, however, were the eyes of someone who sees, and _knows_ in a way only one who has lived and ached could ever know.

“It’s _Howard_ not Chevalle.” Answered Celeste crossly, yanking herself free from her father, “First you hog my hammock, now you misname me, I think it about time that you state your reason for so ardently getting on my nerves!”

There was a hand on her arm, which she tried to shake off with an irritated movement. It was in vain, Chevalle seemed intent to secure her attention, and sent her a warning look when she glanced at him. Too tired, and at any rate much too annoyed, to give a single flying feather about whatever he meant by that, Celeste continued her onslaught, “I must assume that you’ve decided I would make an amusing target –“

“Céleste, je t’en prie –“

“ – but I tell you this, lady, if you have then I promise –“

“C’est folie, Céleste, arrêtes –“

“ – I promise to be the biggest thorn you have ever had in your shoe –“ glancing down, Celeste realised a moment too late that the witch was not wearing any shoes, standing barefoot on the deck with naught a care, “… figuratively, I mean.” She finished tamely.

The witch had, through the whole rant, stood still as a pillar and looked at her with aggravatingly thinly veiled amusement. Now, she smiled, “You are both wrong and right, Celeste Chevalle –“ her arresting stare paralysed Celeste, this was the only thing keeping her from protesting at the name, “ – however, this is of no importance. You have questions, and I am in possession of the answers. Bring me ashore, and I shall give them to you.”

“What of your price?” asked Chevalle. When Celeste turned to look at him, he had a look in his eyes so sharp and dangerous that she almost did not recognise him, “Have you not always claimed that blood will be paid for anyone who steps through your door?” he had something up his sleeve. Celeste could see it on his face. Probably a knife.

Shansa chuckled at him, stretching her neck and making a little bird-like circular movement with her head, “Ah, but you will notice that none have stepped through my door this time, and none shall. My price is, shall we say, temporarily disbanded. It is what I believe you would call a _force majeure._ ”

Her use of French threw Chevalle off of his confidence, and made his dangerous mood vanish, “How did you get here in the first place?” and a moment later, “… do I want to know?”

“No.” answered Shansa cheerfully, or, well, in her own peculiar sort of cheer, “And I would not tell you if you did make the unwise choice to ask.” She still had her gaze firmly resting on Celeste, who dared not move, “Take me ashore.”

Finally, her strange gaze moved away from Celeste, who breathed a sigh of relief, without having sensed for even a moment how she had tensed up. She also now realised once again that she was exhausted, to the point where she genuinely feared keeling right over and falling asleep on the deck, “How far is land?” she asked her father, not having the energy to make herself think of him as anything else.

Chevalle looked at her, tilting his head the slightest bit. There was something soft about him that she did not care to think too much on right now, “Half a day, at the very least. Go to bed, Céleste. Maintenant. Aller.” He was doing everything short of shooing her, but for once she did not do anything to discourage his clumsy attempt at mothering. She simply turned, and left him to deal with the witch on the bridge, heading straight for the velvet-soft embrace of sleep.

And Jesus bleeding suffering weeping baby Christ, she had earned that sleep.


End file.
